


Pancakes

by melanie1982



Category: Boy Meets World, Shoranga
Genre: F/M, Fluff, M/M, Multi, One-Shot, Poly, before kids, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 17:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6529543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melanie1982/pseuds/melanie1982
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silly fluff about my favorite OT3.<br/>POV shifts between all three characters</p><p>This story is fiction. I don't know these people in real life, and I make no money from this story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pancakes

Shawn remembers

When you first moved in, you told yourself you wouldn't get attached - you wouldn't settle into a routine, or start doing all those normal, domesticated things that old married couples do. You weren't a 'couple' - THEY were the couple, and you were the third wheel, or the special sauce, or the 'other' which made things interesting but complicated in so many ways. It wouldn't last; you knew it couldn't - they were too good, too pure, too perfect. Still, you would enjoy things while they lasted.

You moved in on a Monday morning, and every day that week saw you heading off in three separate directions. Saturday meant no work, the three of you lazing in bed until Cory, bleary-eyed for two point five seconds and then springing into super-hubby mode, rushing around like a cracked-out squirrel as he tried to make you breakfast in bed. "You guys both like pancakes, right? Stay here; I'll make you pancakes." Truthfully, Topanga would've settled for coffee - it was, technically, lunchtime now, and she hadn't had her java fix - but Cory was so endearingly eager, that the two of you waited expectantly for him to whip up the promised pancakes and deliver them to you so you could ooh and ahh over them. 

You sniffed the air, and didn't detect smoke. That was a good sign, right? Listening to the sounds of Cory bustling in the kitchen made for a fun guessing game: now he's pouring the dry batter into a bowl; adding the milk; whisking (Cory loved to whisk - something about the repetitiveness of the action seemed to soothe him); the hiss as the batter hit the pan (please God tell me he put butter or oil into the pan first; those were new pans, and it was too soon to ruin them..) You could imagine the failed flip as one of the pancakes splatted onto the floor, followed by Cory's colorful rant at said traitorous pancake - "You couldn't fall down in a straight line? Trajectory, my little griddle-cake!" You and Topanga snuggled close, sharing a joke at Cory's expense, though it was not mean-spirited.

At last, he arrived in the doorway, triumphant, the stem of a (plastic) flower between his teeth, a splash of orange juice slopping over the rim of a glass and onto the tray, two plates sitting side by side. They *smelled* like pancakes; they even looked like pancakes... but one bite, taken under his gleefully watching eyes, and you knew they most definitely did NOT taste like pancakes. Topanga forced a smile, resisting the urge to spit out the batter which was oozing down into her digestive tract. "Um, Cory? How long did you cook these for, exactly?"

His face, crestfallen. "You don't like them? You don't like them. They don't like them," he moped to an imaginary audience.

"It's not that we don't like them, Cor. It's just, well... they could use a little more time in the pan. The middle's kinda..."

"Raw," Topanga said. You hadn't been able to come up with a different, less Cory-shaming word. You, the writer. Go figure.

Awkward pause. "Hey, you know what? It's a beautiful day out. Why don't we all get dressed and go try out that new place two blocks down - you know, the one that looks like a 70s time warp pulled out of a dumpster? We can all three hold hands, play footsie under the table, give the neighborhood somethin' to talk about."

Cory brightened for a moment. "That sounds.. dangerous. Naughty." 'Naughty' was a big trigger word for Cory - almost as much as 'bad.' Corey seemed to relish the thought that he could be bad, precisely because he couldn't be.

"That sounds like fun," Topanga said, shooting you a 'thank you for understanding my husband in ways I can't begin to fathom' look.

You weren't sure anyone even batted an eye at the menage a trois eating their omelets, but Cory felt like less of a loser, and that was all that mattered. 

* Cory remembers 

The next Saturday was Topanga's turn. You and Shawn were anxious to see how she would put her own spin on breakfast in bed, and it was nice, the two of you in the bed, like old times - only now you were, you know, naked, and old enough to know what it was you wanted. No more tortured sleepovers, tense, restless nights of longing for something you couldn't articulate. You had the world's best wife, and the world's best, best friend, and it was a beautiful day in the best city in the world, and you were sure she'd make the best breakfast..

Shawn had played this game before, the name-that-sound game, and you played along, laughing as you heard Topanga talking out loud to the pancakes, as if a maternal tone would wrangle them into submission. The aromas were promising - and then there was a new smell, faint at first, but growing stronger by the second. Shawn knew that smell all too well, giving you a grin as he leaned over to open the window before you suffocated. You didn't mind; his lean, nude form stretched across you was a breathtaking sight, and it caused a stirring beneath the blankets, a hunger for something else entirely.

When Topanga arrived, breathless from combating the would-be inferno, dustings of flour and smears of batter gracing her cheeks and nose, the two of you were just coming up for air from a deep, soul-tingling kiss. "Hey! I go to make food for my two favorite boys, and they start making out without me?"

You, a little smug, but only a little, looking at her with your best smolder, the sorry-not-sorry gleam in your eye. "How'd the pancakes turn out?"

She sighed. "They're in the garbage, burnt to a crisp. It's not as easy as it looks." She had the tray, the juice, the toast - how had you forgotten about toast when it was your turn? - and she set it down on the nightstand.

You grinned. "Maybe once you pass the bar, you can sue the pancake mix company."

She frowned. "For what, emotional damages?"

Shawn chimed in. "Yup. Pain and suffering, smoke damage, respiratory distress..."

Your wife looked genuinely upset that she'd let everyone down. You pulled her in for a kiss, grabbing the juice with your free hand and taking a sip once you'd pulled away.

"Hey, this juice is great." You handed the glass to Shawnie, who took his cue. 

"Oh, yeah, and the toast looks perfect. Just toast-y enough, Topanga. Thank you."

"Toast and juice aren't exactly rocket science."

Shawn looked at the tray, then peeked up at her from beneath his bangs. Ah, 'the look.'

"So, you brought the syrup, right?"

Her confusion gave way to comprehension, and the slow, conspiratorial grin on her face warmed you from your head to your toes - and quite a few spaces in between.

Shawn grinned at each of you. "What do you say we make breakfast in bed? I'm really.. hungry."

Afterwards, as you caught your breath and the afterglow made her forget her failure, you all shared cold toast. It was perfect.

* Topanga remembers

When Shawn cooks pancakes, he makes a big production of it. Radio on to some 90s top 40 station, silly apron, goofy grin on his face.. You could hear it all from where you sat, semi-reclined, in bed, with your husband. 

"So we've had raw..."

"Those were yours."

"And we've had burnt..."

"Those were mine."

"Whaddya think - third time's a charm, right? I mean it couldn't possibly -- "

You heard Shawn working busily, the pop of the toaster offering up its contents, the spreading of the butter, the pouring of the juice (Shawn had bought the juice; no way was he making it himself), the sizzle of the pan..

"Almost done, guys. Hope you're hungry!"

That word 'hungry' had taken on a whole new meaning since last Saturday. You were quite sure you'd never look at a bottle of syrup again without blushing. Mmm.

Shawn in the doorway, tray in hand, delicious smell of not-burnt breakfast wafting toward you. Still, you hadn't tasted it yet.

"Tada!" He was so damned pleased with himself, having accomplished something, not for himself, but for you and Cory - the people he loved.

Shawn sat on the bed to watch you eat, not taking any for himself. Cory took a bite, his eyes growing wide, and then he grinned. It was a genuine smile, reaching up toward his eyes, crinkling the corners.

"Wow."

You took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Oh my gosh, Shawn. These are.. amazing."

Cory offered Shawn a lovin' spoonful - well, forkful, which he accepted. "Wow. They ARE good."

He still doubted himself. "I actually did something right. Holy shit. I did something better than you or Cory. What weird, alternate universe have we crossed into?"

"You did a great job, Shawn. Now come and eat with us."

For once, you didn't have to argue with him, the shock of his success making him lower his resistance for a moment. "I did, didn't I?"

"Thanks, Shawnie."

"Yes. Thank you, sweetheart."

That term of endearment went straight to his gut, Shawn finding it difficult to swallow. "So, does this mean you'll keep me around for a little while - if only to make you pancakes?"

You and your husband exchanged a look. "Shawn, we want you to stay as long as you feel comfortable here. Cooking has nothing to do with it."

"Although, we don't mind if you cook these again. Just, you know, if you're in the mood."

He grinned, accepting it, accepting that he wasn't doomed to always be a screw-up at everything, that maybe, just maybe, he could be having breakfast with the two of you for years to come.

"Know what? I've been thinking about branching out into, like, other breakfast foods. How do waffles sound for next Saturday?"

Cory and I squeezed his hands. "Waffles sound great. It's a date."

It had taken the two of you to 'tame' Shawn Hunter, but maybe he was cut out for this 'domesticated' thing after all.


End file.
